


Grief Counseling

by suspended_in_gaffa



Category: Clone High
Genre: Crying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, i wrote it to be before abe and jfk's convo though, i'm not actually sure where in canon this takes place lol, just a lil present tense ramble to help me cope w my crushing existential dread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:40:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspended_in_gaffa/pseuds/suspended_in_gaffa
Summary: Mr. B lends JFK a listening ear after Ponce's death.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Grief Counseling

“Welcome to grief counseling, Wesley. How are you feeling in this moment?”

JFK doesn’t quite know how to respond. His eyes dart around the office, which Mr. B has done his best to convert into a suitable space for a therapy session. An array of stress toys sit on the desk, and he’s been given a cup of chamomile tea and a croissant. He doesn’t really feel like eating, though; he places them on the desk for the time being. Before he really gets a chance to think about it, he blurts out “er, uh, fine. How are you?”

“No, no. Your emotions, Wesley. How do _they_ feel?”

“Well, if I’m honest, it’s, er, been hard.” His voice cracks, as it has been lately whenever he talks about Ponce.

“It must be very hard. The loss of a loved one is never easy.” Though Mr. B’s mouth can’t move, JFK swears it looks like he’s frowning, and that touches him. He braces himself (not wanting to start crying for what would be the fifth time that day), takes a deep breath, and nods. “What kind of support system do you have at the moment?”

“Cleo, mostly. But whenever I’m around, that new boy-toy of hers gets sour about it.”

“Then it’s a good thing you came to me, because nobody in crisis should be without proper comfort.”

“Right, uh—I, er, uh, didn’t really. You made me come and see you since I broke down speaking at the funeral.”

“Did you realize you would break down speaking at the funeral?”

“I guess I, uh, knew it was a possibility.”

“Why do it then? Why not give yourself a moment to calm down and reflect?”

JFK thinks for a moment about the question. Why do it? Well, why not? He took it as a given that he’d speak at his own dearest friend’s funeral. He’d be failing Ponce’s memory if he hadn’t at least tried. “I had to. For him,” he responds, and it comes out as a squeak.

“Oh, Wesley. Your friend would never have held it against you. Have you ever experienced a loss like this before?”

“No,” JFK says, as the lump in his throat starts to unravel.

“Have you ever thought about...death?”

JFK tenses as he realizes that yes, he has, but not like this. “Not quite—" His chest is tight and he can’t speak without immense effort. He feels like he’s going to collapse.

Yes, he’s thought about death.It’s not lost on him that he’s the only student at this school whose clone parent died on camera. He’s watched himself pass, over and over again. The first time he saw the footage, he was 10, and as he’s grown to look more and more like the original Kennedy, he’s had regular nightmares about what it must have felt like; he’s convinced that the sensation of being shot is etched into his genetic memory. He flinches at the sight of guns, and he’s gotten hammered every Fourth of July since middle school so that when the fireworks start, he’s relaxed enough not to jump at how much they sound like fire _arms_.

And yet, he was comforted by the fact that that was _before_. Death was the end, but he and his peers were a new beginning, laughing in its very face. Death was not something that this JFK was going to have to confront for a long time—or so he thought.

“I have. A lot,” he chokes out, “But I never thought about Poncey dying.” With that, he bursts into tears, drawing in heaving breaths and silently cursing himself for having so little control over his emotions as of late.

“The best part of being your vice principal instead of a real therapist is that I won’t be breaking any code of ethics by giving you a hug, Wesley.” Mr. B scoots out from his position behind the desk and stretches out his vacuum tube arms. JFK leans on his shoulder and sobs into his red cardigan.

“S-sorry if I’m, er, uh, rustin’ your metal Mr. B. I just—“

“There, there. No need to be sorry.” He pats JFK on the back, and the boy lifts his head to reveal his wet, reddened face.

“It’s all so real,” he bawls. “It d-didn’t used to seem real. I wasn’t ready to think about it. ‘Specially n-not without Ponce by my s-side to help me through.” He swipes at his eyes furiously, trying to compose himself; it feels like a cruel cosmic joke.

“There’s nothing I can say to make the pain disappear,” Mr. B laments. “I wish that there were. But nobody is gone forever. He lives on in his legacy—in the hearts of everyone who knew him. Like you, Wesley.”

“But Mr. B,” JFK sniffles, the image of his own death once again burning in his mind. “Well, his, er, uh, legacy. What about the original Ponce? I feel like nobody’s gonna remember him beyond that. Nobody but us is gonna remember _our_ Poncey. Nobody’s gonna remember _his_ smile...or _his_ heart, or the way _he_ and I used to—to h-hang out at the Grassy Knoll after class. He’ll always have this other guy hanging over his head. He never got a chance to break out of it.”

“You alone are enough. His friends and peers are enough. You know he was the one who did all of that, no matter what his origins were. We are all our own, no matter where we came from. Nobody can take that away. From him, from us, or from you.”

“Well, we’re all better for having known him. We’re better people for it.” JFK pauses. “I don’t know if you could, er, uh, say the same for me, though. And that...that hurts.”

“Let him shine through you, Wesley. We all become beautiful mosaics of everyone we’ve ever loved.”

JFK takes it in, then nods, then his face contorts with sorrow once again as he manages a strained “I just miss him so much.”

“I’m sorry, Wesley,” says Mr. B, offering him a tissue. “I know.”


End file.
